A Night on the Town: Madame's Report
by xPeach-Pit
Summary: 8th November 1888. Please find enclosed my report on Evelyn Winston and the detailings of the night regarding her.  Regards, Angelina Durless.   -Madame Red POV, M for Gore and Ripper goodness-
1. Chapter 1

8th November 1888

Having a companion at time like these was usually what I wanted, tonight I felt like I needed to do this alone, to get the most out of it, I suppose.  
Thinking about it -even though it was so very long ago- I always used to carry out these little trips solitarily, before he came along. It is not like I am in any way complaining… he makes the deed far simpler and benign to execute. I –or should I say we- will not get caught when he accompanies me, he is so very swift, you see.  
But I think I am getting rather a bit off topic. I think I shall begin with why I am recording this so promptly, if at all. It is simply because I am not a selfish woman; I shall not forsake the opportunity to advance my medical knowledge in the favor of simply indulging myself. By committing the nights activities to paper as soon as I return means that there is no chance of the finer details slipping from my memory, and so I am taking the time to write this before I have even had the chance to sanitize my equipment and clothing… foolish perhaps?  
To be perfectly honest, I find it rather difficult to give that any concern in my current temperament.

This evening went almost perfectly to plan and schedule. I am a well educated woman, my Mother and Father raised me well and I know this society. Therefore, I know it would have not done me well to have not planned this evening out to the finest detail. Normally I would not have given it so much thought, but Grell is a slight safety net for me. If we ever make a mistake he is able to cover our tracks flawlessly, I never quite understand how he does so… but I do not care to question.  
I left promptly at nine pm, which at this time of year is the best suited time… The sun has set but sufficient time for the street lamp lighters to illuminate the dark London streets has not yet passed, leaving the vast majority of my dear City in inky black for an hour at least. I do not need the majority of London, regardless. I just need just one particular area.  
I arrived on the outskirts of East End after about a thirty minute drive, tipping the driver into secrecy with nothing but a smile. It never ceases to amaze me what a low cut bodice and a well aimed smile can get you these days, but I guess that is just another example of how much of a slave to their neglected loins many of this city's men have pitifully become. It seems that to be charming is no longer a requirement, but we know why that is, now don't we?  
You do not need to be charming, my fine fellow. You just need a handful of petty change to satisfy your revolting desires with a cheap street woman. Oscar Wilde is correct, if a woman wants to hold a man, she has merely to appeal to the worst in him these days.

They line the streets nowadays, there are a lot more than you think. I suppose I have become rather adapt at singling them out, you could say. There are the more apparent girls with their thin hair and [heavy makeup like the scrawny painted maypoles that they are, who drape themselves over any gentleman that is unfortunate enough to have to walk past. Many times I have seen these gentlemen give them a rough hand, perhaps a slap or a slight caning, I personally think that  
-although perhaps not in public- this is the only way they deserve to be treated. Some individuals  
–including some of education and class status who should know better- say that these women deserve our sympathy, our good grace even. Do you know what I say? I say they deserve what I bless them with, which is simply their own demise.  
I had decided in advance that it would be in my best interest to walk a little of the journey myself tonight, as the carriage driver would undoubtedly be questioned regarding my whereabouts at a given time should any suspicions arise against me. Usually I would not have to concern myself with this as Grell takes on the role of carriage driver for our… evenings out. But this evening I was going alone and thus needed to cover my tracks thoroughly, as there was not a soul to provide me with an alibi should I have the need to call for one.

So I was forced to walk rather hastily through the darkened, chilled East End Streets, clutching at my shawl as my carriage warm skin was shocked into submission by the night air. A few years back I would had to take clear note of the street signs and any monuments I passed, but so many times have I walked these streets at such an hour that I seem to know them better than my own manor.  
It is such a part of the city where you feel eyes on you no matter where you turn, as if the shadows themselves are watching. Grell always states that I am simply suffering from slight paranoia, but I must disagree. As a doctor, I have dealt with the paranoid, they do not just feel exposed to unseen eyes but find it near impossible to trust others, and that does not apply to me. There is one person  
-can I say person, I wonder - who I trust unconditionally, with my life, my work and my deepest secret. But I dealt without him at my side this evening. Why did I keep bringing that to my own attention? Was it that I was scared to be alone after so many otherwise similar nights with him, perhaps?

Pulling my shawl tighter around my shoulders, the movement seemed innocent enough to any onlookers, but I was taking the chance to check down my sleeve to the blade I concealed there. This brief loss of concentration cost me, however. As I turned the corner, I almost collided with a young man being hampered by one of the streets many pieces of laced mutton. He turned to me, looking almost desperate to be freed from her oily grasp as she muttered lewd offerings into his ear but far too polite to take a hand to her. Feeling sympathy for this innocent –he looked foreign, perhaps French or Belgian- I cleared my throat and the wrinkled nymphet released him, giving me an iced glare before slinking back into the shadows, undoubtedly not wanting to waste another moment on her failed client. I myself turned to leave, not wanting to put my schedule off any further, but as I did so the gentleman called to me. He spoke of how it was dangerous for a woman such as me to be alone on the streets at this time and how he would gladly help me call for a carriage. I favored the idea of simply ignoring him and making my way, but then he turned his stuttered monologue to a much more interesting subject.

**"Excuse me for troubling you with such gruesome thoughts, my lady, but I cannot put the tales of the one the media is calling 'Jack the Ripper; to the back of my mind. The streets are certainly not safe; I could not forgive myself should you come to any harm."**

For the slightest second I allowed a rather unladylike smirk to cross my features, before extinguishing it at once with my reply.

**"I shall come to no harm at the hands of Jack, I assure you."**


	2. Chapter 2

Scolding myself for letting a handful of my precious minutes of indulgence slip through my fingers, I quickened my pace through the streets pulling a slightly crumpled piece of parchment from my sleeve. Evelyn Winston who had attended my surgery three nights ago lived just three streets from the alley I now strode through, so would undoubtedly be 'working' close by. Replacing her address in my sleeve, I scanned the small street ends carefully. It was perfectly delinquent and suitably sheltered here, so I deemed it my staging area for this evening.  
I must have waited for about forty five minutes or so, if I remember correctly. It is ever so cold this time of year and in the shelter of the tall tightly packed buildings virtually no light or warmth penetrated, causing my breath to condense in milky clouds around me. It really was a flawless venue, the corner of the street quiet and empty whilst lit by a single lamp from an overlooking window but the thin alley where I now stood shrouded in impenetrable black. This perfect layout left me with a wide and clear view of the opening before me, but shielded me from any prying eyes.  
I was beginning to worry that she might never travel back at her dwellings, or that perhaps she already had and I have somehow missed her when I heard the gentle tap of heels on cobblestones. Closing my eyes and resting the back of my head to the slightly damp wall that stood behind me, I listened intently. There is so much that you can find out if you just take the time to stop and listen. I could tell that she was alone; I could tell that she was drawing closer; I could tell that she was in a hurry.  
She bobbed whilst she walked, quite the unladylike gait. It reminds me of my dearest Elizabeth, but she is of such an age where she can carry it off with her ever present innocent charm. This woman, however, was not so fortunate. It made her appear childish and ill kempt, which she undoubtedly was.  
As I mentioned before, Miss Winston attended my practise some few nights previously, demanding the same procedure they all do. I listened intently to her problems, her ailments, her stories of neglect and hardship. She spoke of how she could not bear a child in these circumstances. Now, what do you mean 'in these circumstances', dear? You say it is not possible? I beg to differ… For me, however, it is impossible to bear a child in these circumstances. But do not worry, my sweet. I shall provide a permanent remedy for you shortly.  
As she rounded the corner onto my path, I saw her glance over her shoulder, as if she was being followed. But there were not another set of footsteps to be heard for miles around, she had nothing to fear. To my surprise, she stopped next to the door directly adjacent to where I stood. I had misjudged it; this was not a few streets from her dwellings but the very road that housed it. Scolding myself for letting this magnificent staging area hinder my usual calculating perfectionism, it was becoming apparent that this job would have to be executed more swiftly than first thought.  
She was fumbling with her keys at her doorway, the chilled air allowing me to see her rather erratic breathing as it turned to mist in the night. Why was she so very worried? Her movements reminded me of a hares, twitching and rather repulsive in its irregularity. But it was now time to end it.

It is so very peculiar; they always say the same thing when they see me. They tell me they know me, they ask if there were complications in the surgery they had. Are these type of women all of the same mind, can they not think with any individuality? Seemingly not. Evelyn was no different, her short, rushed monologue echoing many of her sisters before her. I used to answer the questions, especially to begin with; I felt it was some kind of mercy, to let them know why this was happening. But then one evening a particularly peculiar woman tried to… talk to me. She spoke of MY hardships, she offered me support. It made my blood positively boil. That was one of my more… slovenly, unfastidious works. And so, since then I have not answered their questions, I have just worked to silence them more swiftly.  
One other thing that was extremely similar with most of the women that I attend to is the look on their face when I run my blade across their throats; I find it quite curious really. But I am being far to general with this report now, and there is hardly much point to a report which does not highlight the events in greater detail, is there? This journal is not merely therapeutic, this is constructive, and it is professional. I am here to record the abnormalities in this case, not the general and mundane similarities.  
As I strode over the cobblestones to meet her, she at first seemed almost relieved and comforted to see me, almost glad for my company, even stepping from the threshold of her tiny house further into the light. But of course her notions all changed when I drew my knife from my sleeve, but then again I would have been rather surprised if it had not. Of course, she shrieked, an irritating sound which grated on my nerves even further, but with a simple and well practised seize to the nape of her neck and a perfectly aimed cleave of my blade her throat ran red and her exasperating noise ceased. This if course did not kill Evelyn, I never intended it to. She collapsed against the damp wall, clutching at her neck which now hung in ribbons, every movement causing her delightfully crimson blood to bubble forth tenfold. Her screams had now been replaced by a rather unattractive gargling sound, but I remember thinking that it could not be helped.  
As the blood loss began to take hold of her, her knees weakened and buckled beneath her, sending her to the cobblestones below. I had to move rather swiftly to cradle her head as she fell to stop her from taking a fatal hit to the temple from the cold alley floor. It would have been rather pointless for her to die there; I find that having a responsive and conscious audience to my work far more satisfying than some lifeless doll.  
Gently resting her head to the ground, I stretched out my hands and cracked my joints; a steady hand is needed for the following procedure. Kneeling to the damp floor next to her heaving form, I adjusted my bodice and took my smallest, sharpest blade from its hiding place there.  
It may seem a rather strange place to store a blade, but I assure you there is method to my madness. Should anyone find such a item on my person I have a flawless reason to its presence; should I fall foul to any revolting man who has indulged in a glass too much of whiskey, he shall find on his ventures that this rose has thorns. It is for self defence, you see. And I of course keep the item sheathed; my bodice is crimson enough without my own blood adding to it.  
When I began to cut away at the fabric covering her stomach, the usual desperate confusion then sudden realization contorted her silent features, her furrowed brow casting ugly shadows across her bloodied face. Ripping away the cheap, thin fabric perhaps a little too vigorously I finally exposed her paled stomach to the air, her foul form quivering with what I could only assume was fright, as she could not be embarrassed by her exposure… not in her line of work.

"Aesthetic?" I smirked.

Placing my forefinger on the hilt of my precious blade, I applied the correct amount of pressure to insure a straight and clean cut, drawing a delicate line of crimson across the length of Evelyn's stomach, the gentle beads bubbling up through the crack in her skin. It took a few strokes to get through her skin, another few to cut through the fat beneath and of course rather a few to penetrate the muscle. My hands became more and more stained as the time ticked on, becoming enveloped by the same addictive warmth given by her life liquid that was then creating misty patterns in the cold evening air. Better than any designer winter glove, I assure you.  
The procedure itself went as smooth as ever, her irritating quivering and shaking coming to a halt about half way through, or so, when the blood loss finally claimed her. I worked away swiftly after that, making my incisions with perfect precision (Oh, I do believe I made a little rhyme) and claiming and removing what she so took for granted.  
I confined the flesh to one of my specialized, wax lined containers and got to my feet, surveying the artwork before me. I sighed; already feeling the adrenaline fuelled relief leaving even so soon after the deed was done. It was then that things became peculiar.  
I turned to make my way back to my Manor (I knew it would take me a fair amount of time, as there was no way that I could risk calling a Carriage in my current bloodied state) when I heard the gentle click of a lock behind me, accompanied by the squeak of unoiled hinges. I stopped in my tracks, gripping at my larger blade, and turned to face the noise.

He could not have been more than five or six, his small frail body and large eyes shining with nothing but innocence. He stood in the doorway to the small house, wearing nothing but a dirtied night shirt. His mousy brown hair was messy and sleep ached at his features, his small hand clinging to a tattered cloth Funtom rabbit. Ironic, isn't it?  
He looked at me, his eyes wide but not at all afraid. His small voice asked me who I was, was I a friend of his Mothers and why his Mother was sleeping on the floor that lay between us.

I never feel guilt, not normally.

I knew if I stayed there too long I would be brought to bitter tears, so I simply crossed over his Mother's body and knelt to be at his level.

"Go back to bed, darling~" I said, planting a kiss on his forehead and giving him a gentle push back into the house before I made my way back into the safety of the shadows.

And so, that concludes my report on tonight's events, for I feel there is not much else that I think will benefit me and should be recorded. It is getting rather late; Grell should arrive back at the Manor any minute now and he will undoubtedly question why I acted on my own this evening.  
In truth, it is because I am growing steadily suspicious of his views upon me. Lately I have often felt that he finds my company nothing further than tolerable, unless I am covered in the blood of others. Then of course, his passion for me is as fiery as his crimson tresses, but that is just an aspect of his fleeting personality. But I am thinking far too much into things, he would never harm me.  
Tomorrow evening shall be eventful, we plan to venture out to claim a rather interesting woman, and her name is Mary Kelly. Grell seems rather excited about this and so I feel I shall need my rest to be able to keep up with him. So thus, ends my report.

Angelina Durless


End file.
